


Rose Lips

by DesertPersephone



Category: L'ultimo Terrestre (2011), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Character Study, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Sex, Rituals, Sex Work, Slice of Life, Trans Character, Trans Female Character, non-graphic depiction of masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:47:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27183364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesertPersephone/pseuds/DesertPersephone
Summary: An after work ritual.__or 2000 words of me loving Roberta and exploring the rituals of being a woman.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 33





	Rose Lips

**Author's Note:**

> This is really quite frankly, a love letter to Roberta, a piece dedicated to her kindness and love despite the rather cruel narrative surrounding her character. 
> 
> I'm a cis woman, and a lot of her short of nightly ritual is inspired by my own and those of other women I know. I really hope this isn't offensive to anyone, but if I have made some kind of error in my portrayal of a trans woman please let me know so I can fix them!
> 
> To expand on the tag, there is no specific language used in reference to the brief depiction of masturbation, but it is written in with her being pre-op in mind and so the language used does allude to that.

The sky was just barely starting to lighten, the faintest warm haze chasing away the blanket of night as she stepped off the bus. It was late.

Or early.

Late for her and early for the little old lady already awake and watering the tomato plant sitting on the railing of her balcony as Roberta passed underneath and stepped into the tiny foyer of their building. It was so late that Signori Servillo was already on his way to work at a construction site hours away and they often didn’t cross paths. He was on his way down the steps when Roberta stepped up off the street and on to the cracked tiles of the foyer. The two shared a short greeting before she took the stairs herself and headed up to her floor, large hand resting on the wrought iron handrail.

Her key stuck in the lock when she reached her apartment, and Roberta had to go through the usual ritual of jiggling the handle and ratcheting the key back and forth until the lock clicked. It was more than common for her feet to ache after a night of working and she could hardly wait for the relief of leaning against her closed door to pull the zippers on her boots down. Once she had slipped her feet out of them, Roberta let the boots fall to the floor, the shafts flopping over unceremoniously. The linoleum was hard and cold, soothing against the bare soles of her feet, and Roberta took a moment to stretch and curl her toes, still leaning against the door before she stood and headed through to the tiny kitchen, setting her purse on the counter as she went. She would count her earnings over a hot cup of coffee tomorrow morning, and hope she made enough to pay her late rent while also having some left over to buy groceries for the week.

Roberta filled a glass with cold water from the tap, her skin bathed yellow in the light of the buzzing light fixture above the sink. Every night she went out, Roberta made it a habit to leave a light on in each room for her little apartment, both to deter burglars and to give her peace of mind when she came home in the early hours of the morning. No one could hide in her dark bedroom if the light were on.

She flicked the light off as she moved back into the living room, disappearing into her bedroom by the door. Her apartment was far from luxurious, the build itself existing in the suburbs of the city and just on the edge of being condemned, full of addicts, and working girls like her, and other people who didn’t have the luck to be given a fair wage. But there was something about it that felt homey, the laundry that overworked mothers would hang in the stairwell familiar, the shouting and fighting something of a lullaby, and most importantly, Roberta could afford to live alone which sometimes matter more than how filthy the windows remained even after she scrubbed them clean. After moving in, Roberta had a few friends over to help her paint the bedroom white, hoping to make it feel clean and modern. And it did – unless someone was to look at the water stain on the ceiling.

But, if she wore a sleeping mask, then that stain was easily ignored.

Setting the glass down on the top of the beige coated particleboard dresser, Roberta reached over to turn on the small stereo next to her jewelry box. Inside the CD started playing again, right in the middle of Fabrizio De André’s _Bocca di Rosa_ , while she removed the shiny white hoops from her ears and dropped them in a dish, a sigh escaping her as she rubbed her earlobes. The guitar in the song accompanied the effort of her fingers as Roberta reached for the tiny pull of the zipper on the tight white vinal skirt she wore, sliding it down over her hips and letting it fall to the floor once unzipped. She stepped out of it before the same treatment befell her top, leaving both there while she shrugged on her soft vintage kimono and drank down the glass of water before leaving it on the dresser and crossing the hallway.

She paused briefly to check the radiator against the wall before slipping into the bathroom. Leaving both doors open, Roberta quietly hummed along to the gentle tones as De André ratted out of the old speakers. Opening the plastic top to the baby wipes on the counter, Roberta pulled a couple out and, with one hand braced on the faded and yellowing Formica countertop, she reached between her legs to clean up the remnants of drying lube. Quick and efficient, the wipes were soon tossed into her waste bin and her hands were washed before she set to the task of carefully, s _o carefully,_ removing her lashes. First, with a cotton swab and makeup remover, and then gently, _gently_ peeling them off, Roberta dropped one and then the other into a little cup of olive oil to help dissolve the rest of the glue and makeup before she sanitized them in the morning.

Roberta often needed to find ways to save money, as her reused lashes suggested. But something she didn’t skimp on was skincare, and even if her skin looked splotchy and stained after she had roughly scrubbed off her makeup; mascara and liner smudging under her eyes, lipstick lingering on her chin, Roberta took her time washing her face with products to cleanse and calm her skin before she turned the shower on and waited while the pipes creaked and banged and finally water sputtered out, ice cold. Waiting while the shower slowly warmed, she plucked a couple stray eyebrow hairs in the mirror while steam slowly started to fill the bathroom and billow out through the open door.

Hanging her kimono on the hook by the door, Roberta stepped into the shower with a sigh. The hot water hit her in the chest first, running in rivulets over the pale skin of her stomach and down, through the stubble between her thighs and on her legs before Roberta turned and ducked her head under the water, smoothing her bangs back. Dark hair cascaded down her back, thick and heavy with the hot water, Roberta resting on hand softly with her thumb in the hollow of her throat while the other ran over the crown of her head. The water drowned out her CD, but she didn’t mind as she squeezed strawberry shampoo into her hand and worked it to a lather in her hair, acrylic nails scratching and massaging her scalp in a way that was almost better than an orgasm.

This was her own kind of meditation, a moment to relax and reset, something she had always found appealing when she read about it, but Roberta found that she didn’t have the time to waste during the day just sitting and, well not necessarily thinking, but processing. That was something else she didn’t really like to do, process. It was often too visceral and only fueled negative feelings that she would rather not spend energy on. It was easier to just wash away the things that therapists and internet meditation guides wanted her to reflect on. It was easier to wash it away and focus on the things that made her happy, on the good parts of her life and not the giant water stain above her bed.

Her conditioner also smelled of strawberries, and she twisted her hair up into a bun to be secured with a clip after applying it. Tonight had been far, far too long for her to have the energy to shave again, and so she settled just for lathering bodywash over her skin, under her arms and between her cheeks, rinsing away sweat and invisible grime that clients liked to try and leave on her. After the suds were washed from her skin, Roberta wrapped a gentle hand around herself and swallowed. Her body reacted to her touch, a little slow but eager all the same. It didn’t take her long to finish against the tile, wet hair sticking to her face, and mouth open softly in ecstasy as she braced with her free hand against the wall of the shower. Catching her breath, Roberta rinsed away the evidence and basked in the afterglow of climax for a moment; a moment that was all hers and shared by no one else. A private moment of pleasure.

Barely remembering to wash out the conditioner in her hair, Roberta shut off the shower and stepped out onto the fluffy pink bathmat. The CD had started over.

Condensation hadn’t had the chance to build on the mirror, and the room was a little chilly from the open door, but Roberta hardly noticed as she took a moment to examine her reflection, broad shoulders and narrow hips. Quirking an eyebrow, Roberta grinned at the sight of her own ass, sending a wink to herself as she wrapped a towel under her armpits. Drying quickly, and wrapping her hair in a different towel, Roberta pulled her kimono back on and shut off the bathroom light behind her. She checked the lock on the front door once more and retrieved the empty glass to refill it before retreating to her bedroom, shutting the door behind her.

Hitting the power button on her stereo, her room was filled instead with the distant sounds of the neighborhood waking up despite her windows behind shut. Roberta’s bed was welcoming as she lowered herself on to the plush white comforter and picked up the lotion on the side table. It was not strawberry scented, instead smelling like Tunisian jasmine and limes. She rubbed the lotion into her feet, massaging the sore soles and toes and heels before applying a tiny bit more to her hands, the last ritual of her evening.

Roberta sighed again, exhaustion setting in when she stood, throwing her kimono over the back of a chair in the corner and shaking on her rumpled pajamas – a matching set of extremely soft leopard print pants and button down top, with a purple satin sleep mask.

The towel she had her hair in was also dropped unceremoniously onto the floor before she crawled under her comforter, tugging it up to her nose. One hand snaked out to twist the knob on her lamp and finally she settled in to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Do you ever just know something with absolute certainty?
> 
> Thats how I felt about Roberta's strawberry shampoo.
> 
> Please leave a comment or a kudo if you enjoyed this! I really had a good time writing it and all interactions fill me with love! Also I know this is a rather niche fic so interactions count DOUBLE 💗💗


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